


2:44 PM

by ikijai



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Infatuated Mulder, Other, Punk Scully, University AU, pre-prettymucheverything, the 80s, young dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 02:52:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikijai/pseuds/ikijai
Summary: "Time is a factor.""Yeah," he utters. "It is on this planet."





	2:44 PM

It happens during orientation, with a _Black Flag_ t-shirt crop-topped over ivory skin and fire-tinted waves standing out amongst a thunderous amount of people. She’s all industrial piercings and torn jeans—soft tresses and under-averaged height. Yet she’s the tallest thing in view.

Mulder feels his eyebrows knit together as she pushes through the crowd. Then she’s walking directly toward him, trudge sure and placid. It’s in this moment he imagines his _TrustNo1_ t-shirt weighs a thousand pounds. _Damn_ , he thinks. She must've noticed him watching.

It's too late to pretend he wasn't, so he pushes thick, ovalular lenses back into place and digests insecurity just as she comes to a halt inches away. He’s all-too-aware that the two of them are an unworldly paradox before either of them utter a thing.

“Dana,” she introduces, wide blue eyes pooling with something he can’t pinpoint. “Dana Scully.”

“Mulder,” he offers. He practically towers over her, downcasting his own eyes to meet her upward-directed ones.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“You’re the first person to think so.”

She leans precariously up against a pole behind her, and he isn't sure if he imagines a slight upward turn to her lips. “Well, I’m a pre-med student. It’s my first year here. You?”

“Psych,” he utters. “For two years now—one as a transfer. But most people know me as _extraterrestrial boy_.”

Something seems to click inside her head, lips parting and jaw tilting in wonder. She takes in the words on his t-shirt, inspecting his tall form with a keen expression on her face.

“Wait— _you're_ Spooky?”

He isn't even surprised that she already knows about his unfortunate nickname. It only took him weeks to gain the reputation from underclassmen and upperclassmen alike at Washington University.

“The one and only,” he smiles wryly in spite of himself, tongue darting out to wet dry lips as he peers up at the clouds then back down at the younger student.

“I've been presented with some pretty tragic nicknames myself,” she says idly.

“Worse than _alien do-er_?”

“Touché,” she says, poker face intact.

He feels his cheeks warm at the single word. For a person as tiny as Dana Scully, her stare is intimidating. His pulse takes off to other universes. But for once, he'd rather be in this solar system.

“You're a junior, then.”

“Yup.”

She pulls at the wire to her walkman, tunes still throbbing from the thick headphones wrapped around her neck. There's a tattoo peeking out through a jean-hole on her upper thigh which Mulder tries not to stare at for too long a period.

“Where will you be dorming this year?” comes her inquiry instances later.

He's shocked she hasn't already written him off as a loner dork by now like most people do. Plus, she seems to ignore his faltering poker face altogether as she inquires further.

“Darnall Hall.”

This time, white teeth show—illuminated by the sun. Slight dimples forming where dimples don't usually form. The wind blows her uneven tresses around her face, but they don't disguise the obvious smile there. “Oh, me too.”

“Trying to escape the inevitable wrath of your parents?”

“Trying to escape everything, really.”

Perhaps the punk thing is a disguise, he thinks. Or a phase. Either way, Dana Scully is softer in person than she is at a distance, and the idea of knowing her beyond a sidewalk discussion ignites his insides.

He isn't used to small talk—if that's what they're doing. So he picks his brain for anything useful to prolong their interaction together.

“What do you think of the b-theory of time?”

She knows what he's talking about without background information, giving her opinion in nearly the same instant. And either she doesn't think it was an outlandish thing to say, or she doesn't tease him for it.

“Well, time is definitely a factor—obviously. Physics, too,” she shrugs. “Personally, I think it's shit made up to terrify people so they won't try to investigate the _legitimate_  truth.”

“Yeah,” he utters. “It is on this planet.”

He can't decipher whether she’s intrigued or thinks he's insane, but he'll take either one.

“The UFO sightings of ‘81?” he pushes, truly wondering what she thinks.

She doesn't have time to answer before her attention is pulled away. She tightens the black jacket tied around her waist.

“Dana!” somebody yells off to the left somewhere, both of them jumping at the distraction. “The tour isn't over yet, let's go!”

Mulder tucks his hands into his back pockets idly, nodding toward the group of people yards away. “It looks like you're wanted elsewhere,” he teases, and it almost looks like she’ll joke back before her name is yelled out a second time.

“The dictators await,” she utters, tone dripping with tainted sarcasm—too-blue pools still twinkling up at him.

The intense glare of impatient orientation leaders tears into him even though he isn't part of the group, just wandering for the day. The unpleasant feeling poking at his insides at the interruption is instantaneous.

He doesn't give the time of day when some kid in the group utters, “ _Spooky_ kidnapped her, we might as well keep going.”

Mulder bites down on his tongue and ignores the jab, instead opting to wrap it up with the younger student still standing in front of him. He'd talk to her all day if it were possible.

“Well, I’ll see you in a couple weeks?” he tries.

“Yeah,” she utters, suddenly shy as she peers down at the pavement underneath them. “I'll see you then, probably.”

Then she's walking away, fire-tinted hair intensifying under the sun as she drags her boots pitifully against the pavement. He can still make out the tune of what he thinks is _Bad Religion_ playing from the walkman tucked into her pants.

He peers down at his wristwatch once she's dispersed into the crowd from which she emerged. It's _2:44 PM_ , not even lunchtime or too warm yet and he's already exasperated with thoughts of not-too-obvious smiles and partially-exposed ivory.

Yeah, he thinks. He definitely wants to see Dana Scully in a couple weeks.


End file.
